


Crunch!

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-15
Updated: 2009-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>en·to·mo·pho·bia definition<br/>Pronunciation:  /ˌent-ə-mō-ˈfō-bē-ə/<br/>Function: n<br/>:  fear of insects</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crunch!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chkc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chkc/gifts).



> Happy day to you, wonderful girl. You bring us all so very much happiness. You give us awesome chibi and illos and even awesomer cool girl joy. A story for you, because you like things that go _crunch!_

_Crunch._

"Sheppard? Where are you?"

"I'm right here, Rodney." Sheppard's voice floated reassuringly out of the dark, just a few meters ahead and to Rodney's right. Rodney stepped forward blindly and brushed up against what felt like Sheppard's sleeve.

"Don't walk so fast." _Crunch. Crunch._ Rodney shivered and tried not to imagine what was making that sound under his boots. Leaves? It had to be leaves. Leaves that had blown into the long-empty corridor. Leaves that sometimes seemed to move and skitter before their feet as they shuffled their way blindly toward what they hoped was the exit. "Try not to leave me behind, Colonel."

"Rodney, we're barely moving here. It's pitch black if you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I assure you I _have_ , and why couldn't we have waited for Lorne to break us out back there where the door locked _us_ in and Teyla and Ronon _out_ —"

"I'm not sitting around waiting to be _rescued_ ," Sheppard muttered, then said louder, "Besides, you told me yourself the LSD wouldn't be able to penetrate whatever put our electronics and flashlights on the fritz, so how would he know where to find us?" Which was just ludicrous, but just then something skittered and then _crunched_ under Rodney's foot again, and he gasped and sidled sideways, bumping right into Sheppard, who staggered and grabbed at him to keep them both upright. "McKay! What the hell?"

"Sorry! Sorry."

"Okay, look." Sheppard turned him, and Rodney could feel his warm hands gripping him, steadying him. It was kind of reassuring, really. Sheppard smelled good, too, a data point Rodney had recorded early on in their...well, working relationship? _Association._

"What? What?" Rodney asked irritably. It really was entirely too dark in here, and Sheppard's breath was soft on his face, and Rodney wanted nothing more than to clutch hold of him like a scared date at a horror movie.

"I know you get a little...weirded out by small spaces, and when it's dark it feels closed in like that, but we're almost out of here."

"It's not the dark," Rodney said quickly. "I'm hardly afraid of the _dark_ , Sheppard. I'm not an infant!"

"Oookay," Sheppard said, making a three-course meal of the word.

"I'm not! It's not the dark."

"Then what is it?" Sheppard coaxed him back into movement down the corridor, one arm loosely caging Rodney's shoulders.

_Crunch._

Rodney jerked.

Sheppard sighed.

"Well, if you must know, it's that. It's that _crunching_ sound."

There was silence for a moment, and then Sheppard responded, "You mean the leaves?"

"If that's what they are," Rodney said, his voice low. "I'm...unconvinced."

"What the hell else could it be?"

"They're...it's just that they...sometimes it sounds like they're moving. _Skittering._ "

Sheppard froze, and his arm clamped tightly around Rodney's shoulders.

"Well, fuck," Sheppard said, his voice going funny.

"Sorry—" It occurred to Rodney in retrospect that bringing up the possibility of bugs underfoot to a man who'd been almost fatally attacked by one was perhaps a little insensitive.

"No, that's just great." It sounded like Sheppard had started breathing a little fast.

"I did say I'm sorry—"

Sheppard pulled him around and Rodney wasn't sure if he reached out or if Sheppard did but suddenly he was being held tightly in Sheppard's arms, wrapped up strongly, his face pressed against Sheppard's neck. It was...strange. Not anything like Rodney had expected, holding Sheppard, but he was hardly one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he hugged back as hard as he could.

They stood there for a moment, and Rodney realized he couldn't hear anything—no skittering, nothing but the sound of their breathing, which started to calm. And in spite of the bulkiness of their tac vests, Rodney felt how their bodies seemed to fit together comfortably. He never would have thought Sheppard could fit with someone like that, least of all with him, but it was wonderful feeling Sheppard relaxing into his arms.

"Okay," Sheppard whispered finally. "Call me crazy, but I think this is the weirdest thing we've ever done."

"You're crazy," Rodney whispered back, because he could name about ten things easily weirder without even straining himself, but Sheppard suddenly laughed a little.

"Thanks, Rodney," he said, and started to pull back. Right before he did, though, Rodney could swear he felt Sheppard's lips brushing lightly over his cheek.

"It's just leaves," Sheppard said firmly, and Rodney nodded hard even though Sheppard couldn't see him.

"Leaves. Just leaves," he squeaked, and Sheppard clapped him on his vest.

"Good man. Let's go."

Together they crunched their way toward home.

  
_End._

  
__  
**[AND! The bonus porn-at-home sequel! Because it's not a birthday without the birthday suit]:**   


  
The debrief was minimal— _Went to Ancient outpost. Colonel Super Gene pushed button on ridiculous Ancient weapon, which turned everything off, including the doors and our equipment. Trudged the tediously long way home_ —so Rodney got to spend a little time in the lab double-checking that none of his precious laptops were permanently damaged. Then he got into an argument with Zelenka about silicone- versus biological-based computing and whether Wraith tech would have been affected by the Ancient technology—outcome undetermined despite argumentative volumes—and then Rodney went to the mess late for dinner.

No John, which was strange, because usually by that time he would have had his gonads crushed by either Teyla or Ronon during his late afternoon work-out and would just be finishing a tray full of carbs. Rodney grabbed him a wrapped sandwich and a bag of potato chips just in case and headed over to John's quarters.

Rodney tried knocking, then tried the door, then tried knocking again.

"Yeah?" he finally heard.

"It's Rodney. I brought you a sandwich?"

The door swooshed open, and Rodney was already stepping in before he realized a) John was dripping wet; and b) he was wearing only a towel; and c) he was dripping wet wearing only a towel.

Rodney had to swallow twice before he could speak. Then he repeated, "Sandwich?" and held it up, only to realize he'd just crushed it in his hand.

John's half-smile of welcome started to change into something else, but he turned away before Rodney could see it, saying, "Sorry, you caught me just as I was getting out."

The skin of John's back was flushed pink as if he'd spent a lot of time under the hot water. Rodney's eyes helplessly followed the curve of his spine down to the dimples just over his towel-covered ass. Hastily, Rodney looked away and went over to John's desk to drop off the squished sandwich and the little bag of chips.

"So, I—" Rodney took a peek. John's towel had slipped a little while he bent to dig through his drawer. _Holy cow. Holy cow._ Rodney spun away and stared down at the sandwich. "Turkey. The sandwich is turkey, I'm pretty sure," he babbled, "and the chips are Lay's, which I know are your favorite."

"McKay, are you...wow, you're blushing."

"What? No, I certainly am not." Rodney stared down at the squished sandwich and tried to work his way down from 134,261,672 in sevens.

"You are, too." And— _Jesus_ —that was John's voice, rough and dark, coming from behind him, lifting the hair on the back of Rodney's neck. "Haven't you ever seen a guy in a towel before?"

"Of course I have," Rodney scoffed. _134,261,630...134,261,623..._

"Your ears are pink."

"I have naturally fair skin."

"And the back of your neck."

"It's-it's warm in here—" And, God, he could feel John so close behind him now, damp heat all along his back.

"Hey, McKay," John whispered. "It's okay."

Rodney swallowed and turned around carefully. He had to be careful because he wasn't imagining it—John really was so close, the damp skin of his chest was almost brushing Rodney's uniform shirt. Rodney raised his head and saw the look in John's eyes.

"Oh." Rodney said.

"Yeah." John cocked his head, looking uncertain, but when he licked his lips Rodney couldn't wait any longer, so he tilted forward and—

Oh. Oh. This was—much more than Rodney had anticipated. John's lips were soft, full, the granite of his stubble an achingly wonderful contrast to the sweet pull of his nibbling, sucking mouth. Rodney had to reach up and steady himself by putting his hands on John's shoulders, registering, _skin, oh, God, John's skin_ , the strong muscle of John's shoulders and neck, always hidden by the veil of his thin black T-shirts or heavy uniform shirts, now silky, naked beneath Rodney's fingers. John's tongue rasped below Rodney's lower lip before sliding inside Rodney's mouth, and Rodney shocked himself with a sexy groan, a sound he made unselfconsciously, but seemed to trigger something in John because suddenly Rodney felt hands grabbing his hips, lifting him up onto the desk, pushing him back so John could wedge between his legs and—

_Crunch._

—the forgotten bag of potato chips exploded under Rodney's butt. John chuckled into Rodney's mouth, and after Rodney pulled back to scowl indignantly at him, he couldn't help smiling a little at John's open grin.

"Way to kill the mood, Sheppard," Rodney said as grumpily as he could, considering the erection pressing against the fly of his uniform pants.

John's eyes narrowed as if in challenge, and he planted his hands on Rodney's thighs to anchor himself before slithering to his knees. It was the sexiest goddamned thing Rodney had ever seen in his life, so he felt justified in blurting, "That'll be hell on your knees."

John looked up at him disbelievingly.

Rodney crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. "I rely on those knees almost daily to rescue me from the most ridiculously dangerous situations—"

"Fine, fine. Who's killing the mood now?" John said, but then ducked his head and _pulled off his towel,_ dropping it on the floor and using it as a cushion. "Better?" he said, looking up, but Rodney was too busy staring at John's hard cock to pay attention to the smug smirk he just knew was decorating John's face.

Rodney swallowed. "Better," he said weakly.

"Good." Evidently John's patience was at an end because suddenly his hands were all over Rodney's waist, yanking him closer to the edge of the table and unfastening his trousers with deft, sure movements. And even though Rodney had known where this was heading, knew it all along in the subroutine that was composing the red-hot _Honcho Magazine_ letter in the back of his brain for the last ten minutes, it wasn't until he felt John's strong hand grasping his cock and tugging him down and saw that dark head bending over him, not until that last split second before he felt John's mouth on him that Rodney realized, _dear God, John Sheppard is going to suck my cock._

And then he was. John was taking him in, all wet, wet, smooth and hot, sliding and slurping around the head so sweetly that Rodney had to grip hard on the edge of the desk and start counting backward again or this would be over embarrassingly fast, tragically soon. Once John had him as slick as he seemed to want he kept going down, sucking downward on Rodney's cock until Rodney felt like he was being swallowed whole.

And then John came back up for a heaving breath, and went back down again in a steady rhythm, and something broke in Rodney's chest watching, feeling this—he couldn't put a name to it beyond devotion, or perhaps determination, or the strange combination of both that was the heart of John Sheppard, placed like a gift in Rodney's hand. Rodney's breath swelled, and he lifted his hand and put it on the back of John's head, felt John's rhythm almost break, then rush forward even faster, and Rodney let John move through his fingers, let his palm run down through the thick, damp short hair and over the straining muscles of John's neck, and Rodney moaned, "John. God, John," and he came inside John's mouth.

John slowed and sucked gently and swallowed, and then pulled away and rested his forehead on Rodney's thigh. Rodney was trembling too hard to sit up anymore, so eased himself down, the chips and the sandwich following him down to the floor so he ended up on his knees in front of John with the mess scattered around them, but John didn't seem to notice—he was staring right at Rodney through half-lidded eyes that were almost electric with need. Rodney pulled him in only to be attacked by John's mouth on his, the bitter taste of his own come on John's lips.

"What do you need?" Rodney said when he pulled away, but John was already answering, pulling Rodney's hand down to his cock, which was hot and heavy and drum-tight in his hand. Jesus, John had to be hurting, and he didn't even have a foreskin, which was an appalling, criminal atrocity the Americans perpetrated on their infant males, but which meant Rodney would be damned if he would jerk John off dry. Rodney quickly licked his palm, getting it good and wet, and leaned his cheek against John's shoulder so he could look down and watch while he jerked him off.

John let out a grateful moan when Rodney first stroked him tip to root, but then went strangely silent, gasping into Rodney's hair. Rodney assumed it was a habit from having to live in tight quarters due to a military career, and vowed to himself he would train John out of it. Assuming he would have a chance.

He'd like to have a chance.

It wasn't long before John was clutching his shoulder and gasping, "Rodney, God, yeah, like that," and lunging his hips into Rodney's fist, and then John stiffened and his cock spurted, creamy and thick over his naked stomach and Rodney's hand. John gave a weak moan and then slumped against Rodney—of course, getting spunk all over Rodney's shirt, but Rodney didn't have the heart to complain.

He'd be soaking potato chip grease out of his pants for days anyway.

"You've got good hands," John said a minute or so later, and Rodney realized he'd drifted a little, still holding John at an awkward angle, his back against the leg of the table.

"Yes, well, years of training—"

John gave a muffled snort, and Rodney rolled his eyes.

"Not _that_ kind of training. Infant."

"I'll bet."

"Please, can we get off this floor?"

"Good idea."

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea, though, because once John retrieved his towel, wiping himself off casually and pulling on a T-shirt and a pair of track pants, an awkward silence settled between them. Rodney made himself useful by cleaning up the potato chips as best he could and trying to fix John's sorry excuse for a sandwich. He stopped when John caught him at it, and then John was smirking at him, and Rodney couldn't help grinning back, even though he knew he had a ridiculous, lopsided smile.

But then John tugged his hand and said, "C'mere," and kissed him. And John said, "Thanks for bringing me dinner."

"Oh, it was hardly any trouble—"

"Even if you sat on my chips."

"That wasn't my fault!"

"And mushed my sandwich."

"It's turkey!"

"I like turkey."

"I know!" Rodney scowled. "Why'd you miss dinner, anyway?"

John's face went funny—first wince-y, then constipated, and then blank, as if he was hoping Rodney hadn't noticed the traffic accident his features had undergone a moment before.

Rodney jabbed a finger at him. "Don't even! You're hiding something."

John sighed and then went over to the bed and pulled out one of his combat boots from underneath then flipped it over to show Rodney the sole. It took Rodney a moment to make sense of what John was asking him to look at—blue paint? Pixie dust? And then he recognized the iridescent, vibrant flakes of color trapped between the treads of John's boot.

Rodney shivered. "Wings?"

John shrugged, but it looked more like a shudder. "Iratus, I think. Long, long dead, though."

"Jesus Christ. Those idiotic Ancients with their insane experiments—" That long corridor. The entire time they were walking—

"Come on." John nudged him. "Don't do that. Don't even thing about it. Or you'll end up taking a two hour-long shower."

"Ha. Oh."

John grinned sheepishly and ducked his head. "Hey, you want to sleep here tonight?"

Rodney did, he really did, but—"Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"No. But I think—just for tonight—I want you to. I mean—" John rubbed the back of his head, looking away, "Hell, Rodney, you know we won't get away with it most of the time, or even a lot of the time. But if things weren't the way they are, I'd ask you to. So..."

"All right." God, anything to get that lost expression off of John's face. "Just for tonight."

And John smiled.

Well, of course, John's bed was too short, and too narrow for two grown men, and his mattress was plain wretched, and somehow some potato chip crumbs ended up scratching under Rodney's hip all night long.

It was close to perfect.

  


_End._

__  
**Happy birthday, chkc!**   



End file.
